Penance
by LaBohme
Summary: "This is how it should be. This is how it should have been. Since the beginning. Until the end." Reviews and PMs would be lovely.. Warnings: S/M, marking, etc.


"Dean, I didn't mean to." Cas rumbled, hands held out apologetically.

The man glanced over his raised shoulder, his body language screaming for the angel to leave. _Now_. Before things got messy. The man pressed two fingers into the red mark branded to his hide. His teeth clenched. His jaw twitched. He didn't _want_ to hurt anyone. But the feeling hurting gave him was... euphoric. Blissful. Heavenly. _Glorious_. And he craved it like nothing he'd ever craved before.

"Leave," Dean barked, voice twisted and thick with emotion. "Cas, now. Leave." He was using the tone taught to him by his father. It meant it wasn't a question. There wasn't an option. And if one didn't listen, there'd be consequences.

Somehow the First Blade was in his hand, clenched unbelievably tight in his fist and the power that flowed through him was _delicious_. Dean's head cocked to the side, eyes closing, lips curling to a vicious sneer. Images flashed through his mind, there and gone like snowflakes on a tongue, soft and dove-like. Images of Cas. Of their memories together - of their fights and their stares and their hugs and their love. And then the image of pressing the Blade into his chest - penetrating warm, living flesh with the Weapon of weapons and the beautiful gush of dark blood and the smooth ripping of the skin - floated into Dean's head and he licked his lips.

_No_, a tiny voice that sounded much like Bobby's echoed lowly in his head.

_Yes_, a stronger one roared, and that same euphoric feeling flooded from the tips of Dean's fingers to his toes. In a sick way, stabbing Cas suddenly felt intimate to Dean. It felt like the only way to be closer to each other than they already were. It felt like a beautiful thing.

But Dean opened his eyes and they connected with painfully blue ones and the feeling faded. It was Cas. It was Cas' soft, hooded eyes and parted lips and that dark stubble. It was the worry lines creasing his forehead and the blue circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders hung low in exhaustion and defeat. It was the penetrating look Cas gave him.

In Cas' silence, Dean found an anchor. And he breathed. And the anger lessened.

"I want to hurt you." The hunter confessed.

Cas' head tilted, brows knitting together in an understanding way. "And I deserve it."

The world was quiet. And still. And to Dean, all there was were him and the angel. Castiel took a tentative step towards the addict. And another. And another. Until the Blade was an inch from his stomach.

"Go ahead, Dean. Find solace."

Dean glanced downwards at the bone held tightly in his whitening fist. It would be so easy. It would feel so good. All he had to do was shift his arm forward. One inch. Two.

The Blade crept towards the angel's stomach. And Cas looked away from it. He looked at Dean. He followed the concentrating eyes, so beautiful and sad, down to the twitch in his jaw and the quiver of his chin and the tightening of his sore red lips. Dean was gorgeous, inside and out. Cas wanted Dean to be his. And he wanted to be Dean's. And if that meant giving the broken man pleasure in the last and fiercest way possible, he would not resist. Not for Dean.

The Blade touched the angel's stomach. And it kept going. And it pierced the skin. Blood bloomed against the white shirt. And that is when Dean stopped. His hand trembled. His eyes caught the angel's. The Blade fell to the floor.

"I deserve it, Dean." Cas repeated. A new tone was tainting his voice - an almost desperate grovel. A plea.

It was then that Dean realized that Cas was a masochist. Cas felt guilt. And he _wanted_ to be punished for his sins. That was, after all, why he had left himself in Purgatory. And here he was, trying to punish himself again. At Dean's expense. Or was it at Dean's expense? The more the man thought about it, the less he saw the immorality in their situation. It was a win-win. Dean would be allowed to feel the magnificent ecstasy the Blade gave him and Cas would find comfort in his reconciliation and penance. There was no loser.

Dean swallowed audibly, head lowered, cautiously prowling towards the angel. He was on guard. He was a predator. He was an animal.

"Do you?"

The angel nodded gravely, his eyes never leaving the man's.

Then they were close. Their chests were almost touching. Heavenly skin was millimetres away from the Blade, which had returned to its home in the addict's hand. With a deep breath Cas' trembling hands found Dean's and they guided the Weapon up, until it was held between their necks; prominent veins pulsing with nerves or excitement. Cas trustingly left Dean's hands to support the lusty knife and he removed his coat and his shirt. The heat of the bare skin radiated towards the addict and with the power of the Blade flowing through his veins he could _feel_ the life in the angel. He could taste the pulsing blood and the beads of sweat and he could smell the fear and apprehension. But there were other scents there too. There were determination and longing and love. These surprised the man but those all suddenly became irrelevant as the angel stepped even closer. And once again, he wrapped his hands around those clutching the Blade like it was all that mattered in the world. Castiel frowned. He was jealous of the Blade. With another deep breath and shaking fingers, Cas guided the knife downwards, until the tip touched the base of his collarbone. He pressed. It broke the skin. A stifled grunt escaped Dean's tight lips. He was trembling, fighting to keep his hands still and his mind in control. It would be_ so easy_ to simply pull away and stab Castiel again and again and again and be close to him in ways no one ever was before and he would feel so good delivering the fatal hurts. But he didn't. With trouble, he kept as still as possible, and let the angel guide his hands where he wished. Blood pooled and dripped down Cas' chest. Dean sighed in pleasure as Cas dragged the crude dagger downwards, carving a soft red line over his chest and stomach. Blood continued down to stain his belt and pants.

With a shuddering, fulfilling sigh, Cas closed his eyes and his hands left Dean's.

"Go on, Dean. Mark me. Make me yours."

The man let out a strangled, pained breath as he, with great effort, pressed the tip again to Castiel's skin. So soft. So gentle. The feathers of a dove. Of an angel.

Cas shuddered. And Dean sharply broke the skin. Mesmerized, his free fingers found the droplet of crimson and pulled it down to the angel's nipple, and he twisted the stiff bud of nerves as he dragged the knife in a curved line to the base of his ribs. Cas groaned and his knees weakened and his fingers desperately clasped Dean's forearms for support.

The man exhaled, long and completely, grinning and closing his eyes. The exhilaration - the bliss - he was feeling was incredible; unquenchable. He needed more. A hand reached around to fist the dark hair at the back of the angel's head. He tugged, groaning as the Blade carved another smooth sweep into the hard, hot flesh and more titian beads raced towards the ground.

He pulled one more line through Cas' skin, shaking and breath coming in short, fast huffs. The angel groaned in either pleasure or pain - or maybe both - and touched the man's hand. Dean came back to himself. His eyes opened. He was suddenly aware. He loosened his hold on the short hair at the base of the angel's neck and stared wondrously at his quivering hand and the Blade. It glinted and shone in the dim light - red and white and brown. It looked beautiful to him. Then he looked at the wrecked angel clinging desperately at his shoulders and forearms - eyes closed and expression twisted with bliss and lips soft and parted and three red ribbons engraved into his stomach and chest. They were oozing dark, bubbling blood. The angel looked beautiful to him.

It was when a needy hum escaped Cas' lips that humanity overcame and smothered Dean. Morality returned to him. It was as if the power of the Blade switched off, leaving Dean defenceless and vulnerable and confused. Cas no longer looked beautiful. He looked hurt and sick. He looked like he needed help. And Dean was the one who had done it to him. The man felt the air crush out of his lungs and the weight of his body and his sins threaten to suffocate him. He gasped for air and the Blade fell from his quaking fingers and Cas' eyes opened heavily. The angel switched from leaning on him to supporting him in less than a second. The man fell onto the angel and struggled for breath.

He was deranged.

He was evil.

He was a monster.

He was _the_ monster.

"_Cas_," He breathed, eyes pleading and lips gaping for words and breath and excuses and apologies. But none of that came. Just the one word. The word he repeated. "Cas..."

The angel supported him. Sat him on the bed.

"_I am the monster_." It was a revelation to the addict. An overwhelming truth that had just presented itself to him and had instantly changed him forever. _He was the monster_. He repeated it, over and over and over; a mantra. A hymn.

"Hush, Dean." Cas rumbled, soothing a hand over his hair. He petted him and hushed soft words into ears. "You are not a monster." The look Dean shot him was disbelieving and pained and damaged and broken. Cas broke the eye contact. The man's eyes were too open. Too honest. Too true. There were no lies in them. And therefore Cas couldn't lie to them. "You are... you are a morbid empath with psychotic tendencies."

"I'm a monster." He repeated.

"Dean," Cas tried again. He searched for words. He searched all the words of all the languages ever spoken in the history of the world and he could not find the right ones. There were no words for this. So Cas stopped trying to say the right thing. Instead, he said what he was thinking. "Find comfort in me." The man lowered his eyes this time. He was not worthy of the angel's pity - of his kindness or his compassion. He was evil. He was dirt. "Find comfort in that I want - and deserve - to be punished, Dean. Don't pretend the Blade does not make you want to hurt and maim and kill. Take it out on me, Dean. Find relief in me. _With _me." Castiel picked up the Blade and pressed it to Dean's palm. His grip on it was weak and unsure. He caught the man's eyes and smoothed a hand over his cheek, a tremor running through his skin. "Do it, Dean. Punish me. Please. I deserve it. And so much more." The Blade was raised between them, shaking, and green eyes followed it. "Mark me. Hurt me. Discipline me. I'm yours, Dean. Do what pleasures you. And I will take it. Do it, Dean."

With slow and soft goading, tears fell from the man's eyes and his chin quivered but he held the Blade again to the bared skin. Castiel led them back until he was lying on the bed, Dean supporting himself on his elbows, the weight of his lower body a comfort. It felt right to Cas.

He felt a sudden dull wave of sadness. This is how it should be. This is how it should have been. Since the beginning. Until the end. And not to hurt and be hurt. But to be together. To enjoy the feel of each other's weight and each other's skin and each other's breath. To enjoy the coming together of souls.

But this would have to be enough. Castiel watched Dean through half-lidded eyes as he, quivering and shaking, biting his lip and failing to hold back tears, pressed the tip into an unharmed strip of golden skin. The man hated himself for whimpering with pleasure at the feeling inflicting pain gave him. He hated himself. But it was a battle between emotion and instinct.

Emotion was losing.

"Cas..." He choked after separating a few inches of skin. The guilt and pleasure made him feel nauseous. He was revolted by himself.

With a soft look the angel laid a hand to the man's jaw and pulled him forward. Dean couldn't meet his eyes. He let them wander over the man's lips and neck. Castiel coaxed his head up, and without hesitation, pressed his lips to Dean's. The addict only took a second to get over the shock and found peace in the constant and soft pressure. In the assurance and the love.

"Find relief with me, Dean."

The man nodded ardently, eyes hooded and dark, lips loose, crazed with love and passion and flaring bloodlust. The tears on his cheeks contradicted the primal insanity filling his eyes. He pulled fingers through thick, dark hair and pressed his lips to his loved one's again and marked him, a crude and savage 'D' carved into the angel's chest.

Castiel realized his words had pushed the man over the edge. The Blade had taken control.

The feral shell of a man leaning over him growled, making his eyelids flutter. The angel's breath hitched.

"There you go, Cas. You're mine."


End file.
